Frostheugh, 1910
The mist and clouds were heavy as a cold breeze swept through the city. Autumn had arrived, making everything look even more beautiful than usual. As the day began, the city hummed with its typical morning routine: bakeries opened to sell fresh bread, bookstores unbolted their doors, and factories started their engines as the workers arrived for their shifts.
The manor stood tall against the chilly air. Inside the gates, the servants were already busy.
"Clean that area too! Don't think you have time to sit around and daydream," Aunt Della snapped, pointing to a spot on the ground to her niece. "Once you're finished, collect some dry branches and bring them back to the house. We'll need them for the fireplace." With that, she left her niece to her work.
Evelyn stood there with her broom, sweeping the fallen leaves off the path. When she was done cleaning the ground and piling up the dirt and leaves, she started picking up dry branches one by one.
"Hey, Evelyn!" a voice called out.
Evelyn straightened up and turned around. It was Edmund, her friend from school, standing just outside the manor gates. She smiled and walked over to him, her face lighting up.
"Edmund! When did you get back from vacation?" she asked smiling as she approached him.
"Just yesterday," he said. "How have you been? The holidays are almost over, and then we'll finally be graduating."
"I'm doing okay, just helping my aunt out," Evelyn replied. "Have you decided which college you're going to yet?"
"Not yet," Edmund said, leaning against the stone wall that separated them and resting his arms on top of it. "My father wants me to go to the college in the capital, but I'm refusing. I want to stay here, finish my studies, and graduate. That's all there is to it."
"But I think the capital would be much better for you," Evelyn said. "The education there is supposed to be much better."
"Nah, I don't want to go," he replied. Then he looked at her curiously. "What about you? Will your uncle let you take that teaching job? You passed the state exam and you have all the qualifications."
Evelyn sighed. "I really want to. If my uncle gives his permission, my aunt won't argue. I just have to actually get the job."
"Well," Edmund said, lowering his voice slightly, "I heard that Duke Roosevelt's son is coming back for his vacation. Is that true?"
"I think so," Evelyn said, glancing back at the mansion. "I've heard the rumors and gossip that he's arriving in a week to spend his vacation here with his parents."
"Didn't they send him away when he was only ten?" Edmund asked, shaking his head. "It's no wonder rich kids turn out so arrogant and cold. They look at people like us as if we're just weeds that need to be pulled."
Evelyn stayed quiet, her eyes drifting back to the manor.
The Roosevelt family was more than just wealthy; they were a pillar of the empire, with influence that reached all the way to the capital. Their business interests were vast, stretching across every corner of the land, making their name a symbol of power and prestige. In high society, a word from a Roosevelt could open doors or close them forever.
William Roosevelt was widely considered the most successful Duke in the family's long history. He had returned from the war with medals of honor and proceeded to expand the family business until it brought in immense profits. Now, he was known as the wealthiest man in the city—and perhaps the most respected.
William and his wife, Christiana, had only one son. Richard had been raised like a prince, beloved and sheltered by his parents. Evelyn still remembered a time when things were different. She clearly recalled the day she had accidentally run into him in the garden when she was seven and he was nine. They had spent the afternoon playing and talking, becoming fast friends in that short time. But everything changed when Richard turned ten and was sent away to a distant boarding school.
"Well then, I have to go," Evelyn said, shaking off the memory. "My aunt will scold me if I'm late finishing this."
As they went their separate ways, the sun began to dip below the horizon, and a chilling breeze swept through the air.
*********
Back inside, Evelyn tossed another log into the fireplace, making sure the room was warm enough to keep out the evening cold. As she stood up, she saw Aunt Della ladling hot potato soup into Uncle Mike's bowl. As she served him, she spoke up.
"Dear, George sent a letter saying he needs money for some books and stationery. Can you give me a bit? I want to post it to him tomorrow."
Uncle Mike looked up at her, his spoon mid-air. "Did he pass his sixth semester exams?"
Aunt Della scoffed, her expression turning defensive. "You are always doubting your own son! There is a reason we sent him to the college in the capital. He is incredibly smart."
"It was you who insisted on it," Uncle Mike reminded her calmly. "George wanted to finish his degree right here in Frostheugh."
"Because the education in the capital is far better than here!" Aunt Della argued. "He will secure a job much quicker that way. Now, just give me the money. It's only two more years, and then he'll graduate and be able to support himself."
Uncle Mike remained quiet and simply continued with his dinner. Aunt Della scoffed one last time, and only then did her eyes finally meet Evelyn's. Della sat down and filled her own bowl until it was brimming with soup, then reached into the basket for a large piece of bread.
With a small, dismissive nod from her aunt, Evelyn was finally allowed to approach the table. She reached for the pot, only to find that it was nearly empty; there was barely enough soup left to fill the bottom of her bowl. When she looked in the basket, only a single, small piece of bread remained.
Evelyn didn't say a word. she quietly poured what was left and took the last of the bread. As she began to eat, she felt no bitterness. She was used to the leftovers, and she was simply grateful to have a meal at all rather than go to bed hungry.
*********
A few days passed, and the servants of the manor became busier than ever. It was officially announced that Richard would be arriving in a week for his vacation. Since this was his first time returning home in years, everyone knew the house would soon be filled with guests for parties and grand gatherings.
The servants were ordered to scrub every corner and polish every room to ensure the manor looked its best. Lady Christiana even gave Uncle Mike special instructions to plant more flowers and ensure the grounds were beautiful. She was especially firm about the glasshouse, ordering him to take extra care of the rare plants and trees kept inside.
Uncle Mike worked endlessly in the garden, through the heat of the mornings and into the afternoons. As the manor's gardener, it was his responsibility to make sure the landscape was perfect and that their glasshouse remained the finest in all of Frostheugh.
During his break hours, Evelyn would bring him his lunch. Sometimes she stayed to help him with the lighter garden work. Uncle Mike knew her winter holidays were coming to an end and that she would soon have to prepare to head back to her own life, yet she continued to help him while managing all the chores at the cottage as well.
He didn't say much about it. He simply kept his head down, focused on his work, and let her help in her own quiet way.
*********
Inspector Ben threw the document onto a mounting pile of files after finishing the final page. He rubbed his temples, his eyes burning with exhaustion from hours of pouring over the records.
Every folder on his desk told the same story: an unsolved crime with no leads. The culprit was a phantom known as the Skin Slaughterer. Despite years of investigation, Ben hadn't found a single piece of physical evidence or a solitary witness. The only thing the killer ever left behind was a hauntingly consistent pattern.
"It always happens the same way," Ben murmured to the empty room.
The routine was a cycle of failure: they would arrive at a crime scene, search desperately for clues, and come up empty-handed. They would send the body for a postmortem, patrol the streets for a few weeks, and then slowly watch the case go cold. It was a cycle that had repeated for nearly a decade. Every year, a new Duke was murdered in a horrific fashion, and every year, the police were left with nothing.
Ben had written countless letters to the government, pleading for special forces. But even when the elite units arrived, they were just as baffled as the local police. Eventually, the city's mayor had grown frustrated with the lack of progress and sent the special forces away.
Since then, the murders had continued without interruption. To a stranger, it might seem like the people of Frostheugh had forgotten, but the silence in the streets was born of fear, not forgetfulness. Everyone knew the killer was still out there, and everyone lived in terror of who the next target might be. The police, unable to catch the monster, had turned their focus toward prevention—patrolling at night and keeping citizens away from the abandoned, crumbling buildings of the city. Yet, even with these measures, the killings never stopped.
"I wonder who his victim will be this year," Ben whispered, staring out the window at the clouded city.
"Sir, should we try requesting the Criminal Agent forces again?" an officer asked tentatively.
Ben scoffed. "Those men? They are trained at prestigious colleges only to do nothing. All they ever do is wear expensive overcoats and fine hats with cigars hanging from their mouths. They spend days 'analyzing patterns' and achieving nothing. They interrogate a few people, ask pointless questions, and then retreat to their rooms to stare at a board full of notes. In the end, they always say the same thing: that the case is impossible to solve."
The officer remained quiet for a moment before trying again. "Then... what if we write to the detectives in the neighboring country?"
"Have you gone mad?" Ben yelled, his voice echoing in the office. "If we do that, our country's reputation is finished. And even if they agreed, how do we know they wouldn't just send a spy disguised as a detective?"
The officer went silent again, shifting uncomfortably. Finally, he spoke up in a low voice. "What about writing to Mr. Jonathan Cernan?"
Ben stopped and looked at the officer.
Jonathan Cernan was a legendary figure. He was a detective who had solved cases everyone else deemed impossible—thefts, assassinations, brutal murders, and even political conflicts. He left no stone unturned. He had even served as the right-hand advisor to the late King, earning the respect of the entire empire. However, he was currently suspended following a controversial case.
Ben was silent for a long time, weighing the risks. "It feels wrong to drag a man like him into a case this bloody," he said quietly. "But we have to do something to stop these murders. Fine. Write the letter. Explain our situation and ask him to come to the city to solve this once and for all."